The Long Goodbye
by Ged
Summary: Ryan struggles to come to terms with Marissa's untimely death. Chapter 5 finally added. Apologies for the wait.
1. Chapter 1

**The Long Goodbye**

**_Author's Note:_** _Despite believing, as I do, that Marissa and Ryan might have had the chemistry of nuclear fusion, but instead more often resembled an inert gas, their relationship was pivotal to many of the story arcs in the OC and therefore deserves a fitting tribute, as does the character of Marissa. Besides, who could pass up a Josh-given opportunity to deliver more Ryan-angst?_

………………………………………………………………………………..

In the dark of night  
Those faces they haunt me  
But I wish you were  
So close to me.

- **_INXS_**, _'By My Side'_

The dream always ended the same way, with a sickening grind of metal and then the fall; a bone-jarring tumble into endless darkness, punctuated by a single terrified scream. Ryan would wake, sweating, enmeshed in damp sheets, his heart hammering, his ears resounding with Marissa's death cry, and he would squeeze his eyes shut, finding solace in the blank emptiness behind his lids, wishing he could get past that moment of impact; knowing if he could just relive their escape from the carcass of the car, if he could cradle her in his arms one last time and hear her final whispered words, he would be able to let go. But dreams are cruel, composed of what-ifs and regrets, unhappy notes of a discordant symphony conducted manically by a guilt-ridden mind.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, burying his head in his hands. Shit, he was tired. He hadn't slept properly since the funeral and he recalled now, as he always did after that dream, the day her coffin had been lowered into its dank grave, its passing marked only by a strengthening breeze that stirred hair and playfully lifted skirts and by the mournful sobs of those who'd cried as he couldn't.

Then he'd stood as he always had, a little apart from the crowd, wrapped in misery that craved forgiveness. But who had the power to grant him absolution? Not the dead, whose penance for relinquishing life was eternal silence; and not the living, whose eyes spoke the words their mouths could not utter: that Marissa lay boxed in satin and cedar because of him.

With faltering steps, Julie had approached the lip of the grave, stooping to clench a handful of dirt, dirtying her nails, muddying her porcelain skin, every move calculated to evoke the finality of death. The thud of earth upon wood had made him jump and he'd raised tired eyes to accept her anger, reading across the neat, rectangular chasm the clearest of messages, vicious and unrelenting: _It should have been you, you bastard! Oh God, why wasn't it you?_

Only after everyone else had departed, clutching one another in tearful huddles, had he sought in vain for an answer to that question. Shrugging off the guiding hand of Sandy, ignoring Kirsten's pleas and mutinously avoiding the eyes of Seth, he'd stood awhile by the carefully cut grave, its banks amassed with hot-house flowers that would, in turn, brown and wither. It was ludicrous, he'd thought then, glancing around at the avenues of trees and the smoothly-mowed lawns and the neat paths trod upon by brief visitors, that in this garden of the dead - an Eden tended more zealously than any city of the living – where sprouted the grey stunted tombstones that bloomed with words and dates and meaningless proclamations of the virtues of those who dwelt there, Marissa had been left to rot. And it was unseemly that she, who had been abandoned so often in life, should be so in death. No one else had stayed, only Ryan; as he had always tried to protect her in life, so he was there for her in death. Such was his promise, and his penance.

Now he rose unsteadily from the bed and, stumbling to the bathroom, doused his face with cold water. His eyes felt gritty with exhaustion, his cheeks rough with stubble. He didn't bother turning on the light; he already knew he looked terrible and darkness was his confidante.

There should have been music, he thought suddenly. There should have been music at Marissa's funeral. Not the sombre dirge selected by a grieving, hate-filled mother, but real music, the type Marissa had loved, something darker, with a heavy tempo to mask the silence left by a heart that no longer beat. But that's not what funerals were for, Ryan chided himself. Funerals weren't for the dead; they who couldn't hear the music and the eulogies, and the cries of those they'd left; they who couldn't comfort the mourners, or wipe away the tears, or reassure the uninitiated. Funerals were life's homage to death, as if by declaring it a solemn occasion, it might be perceived as being grand, an adventure, something to wonder at. But there was nothing wonderful about lying in a box below six feet of cold earth. No, there was nothing to marvel at there.

_Oh God! _Ryan choked and bowed his head, willing the tears to fall, waiting for that tell-tale prick behind his eyes that would bring blessed release. But there was nothing. He hadn't wept at the funeral and he couldn't cry now. That release, that relief he craved, would have to come from somewhere else.

Weaving his way into the main house, he passed the kitchen and headed for the bar. It was a place he rarely visited, yet this night, in the dark, he unerringly found what he was looking for. He paused then splashed the brandy into the glass, filling it. Marissa would have approved, and he smiled grimly at that thought. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the counter, allowing the cool wood to support his weight. He raised the glass to the empty room and downed the contents, quickly, without wavering. His throat burned, but it was a good because the pain took his mind away from that other dark place where it had dwelt for days, cold and alone. He waited for the familiar warmth to seep from his stomach to his limbs, driving out the chill he had known since the accident. Damn! It was taking too long. He poured another glass.

Was this how Marissa had felt after Johnny's death? Alone amid friends, self-recriminatory, helpless to understand how or why such a tragedy had occurred? If so, then what a shit he'd been, to have shown so little sympathy, or comfort. What a complete, fucking shit! But the joke was on him now, right? Ryan smiled grimly, acknowledging the irony.

'Hey kiddo,' Sandy spoke softly from the doorway. His hair was disheveled and he wore an open robe over wrinkled pyjamas; the late-night epitome of concerned fatherhood. 'All alone in the dark?'

Ryan took another gulp before replying. 'Nope. Marissa and I were just reliving old times.' He waved his glass and reached for the bottle. 'Care to join us?'

There was a momentary pause before Sandy replied, 'Sure. Pour me one too.'

Ryan glanced at his guardian. That was the wonderful thing about Sandy, he thought. The guy never judged, never censured. It was also a weakness, Ryan knew, but hey, what the hell did he know, he who judged everything and everybody at the drop of a hat? He reached for another tumbler and filled it before handing it to the older man.

'To Marissa,' Sandy said quietly, raising his glass.

Ryan didn't trust himself to speak, merely stretching across to clink his glass against Sandy's. They sipped in silence.

'No one blames you Ryan,' Sandy said at last.

Ryan snorted. 'Except Julie.' _And me. Always me._

'Julie's struggling with her own demons. They have nothing to do with you. One day, she'll realize that.'

Ryan shrugged. Sandy needed to realize a few things too: that a mother's love and protectiveness did not die with her child; no matter how bad the mother. But Ryan was in no mood to argue. Not tonight.

'We're all worried about you, kid,' Sandy tried a different approach. 'You're not eating, you look like crap. Are you getting any sleep at all?'

Ryan shrugged again and swallowed his brandy. There was no need for words; clearly his appearance said it all.

Sandy fumbled in the pocket of his robe and drew out a couple of pills. 'I want you to take these,' he said then added, by way of explanation, 'They'll help you sleep.'

Ryan regarded them for a moment, before glancing blearily at Sandy. 'Yeah,' he murmured his voice gravelly with exhaustion. 'They probably will. But will they stop me dreaming?' Hell, he'd swallow a whole fucking bottle of them if he knew they'd banish that dream.

Sandy sighed and, turning over Ryan's hand, dropped them into his open palm. 'I don't know, kid. But it's worth a try.'

Ryan closed his fist around the pills. He wouldn't take them, at least not yet, but he said nothing.

Sighing, Sandy hoisted himself off his stool and, recapping the bottle of brandy, shelved it, beyond Ryan's reach. 'C'mon,' he said gently. 'Go back to bed. We'll talk more in the morning.'

Talk. That was Sandy's solution to everything. Talking, reasoning, arguing, persuading. But some things couldn't be talked about, some things couldn't be explained. Some things needed to be kept inside, until they either dissolved or festered, rotting a person from within. Ryan knew all about that, but he nodded his acquiescence and pushed away from the counter, rocking unsteadily on his feet. Sandy draped an arm over his shoulder and guided him to the doorway.

'She loved you very much,' he said at last, as if these simple words were a cure for Ryan's pain, a balm for his burning guilt. But they were neither of those things because Ryan knew what Sandy did not: that if he'd remained true to himself and given Marissa the one thing she'd craved above all else, that she'd sought from their first meeting that night on the Cohen's driveway, everything would have been different and there would have been no room, or reason, for Volchock to enter – and end - her life. But Ryan had betrayed himself and, in doing so, had failed her. Nothing could excuse him of that.

'No,' Ryan replied, realization dawning slowly. 'She loved who I was, not what I became.'

Sandy stared at him, uncomprehending, but it didn't matter. This wasn't about Sandy. It wasn't even about himself. This was about Marissa, and Ryan knew she would have understood.

**tbc**


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

Show me what it's like  
To be the last one standing  
And teach me wrong from right  
And I'll show you what I can be

- **_Nickelback,_** _"Savin' Me"_

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

Seth looked up from the paper as Ryan stalked into the kitchen.

'Oh! It's alive,' he commented in mock surprise, but further banter was halted by a glare from across the counter. Seth bit his lip and mentally slapped himself. 'Sorry, man. Bad taste.'

Ryan said nothing. Cupping the hot mug in his palms, he slouched onto a stool and stared at nothing. Seth tried to watch him from the corner of his eye, but soon gave up. It made his eyes ache; surreptitious sideways staring did not figure highly in his repertoire of skills. Having displayed a maturity and compassion he – and others – had thought beyond him, Seth had granted Ryan a reprieve since the funeral, staying out of the other boy's way and leaving Ryan to his thoughts. It had been a generous gesture on his part, Seth acknowledged smugly, but judging from Ryan's unkempt, unshaven and, well, generally god-awful appearance, it had also been a mistake; one that needed to be remedied. Pronto.

'So, what's on the agenda for today?' he asked casually, breaking the uncomfortable silence. 'A little bear-wrestling? Gonna set some traps?' He was rewarded with another glare, by one who was indisputably the master of the sideways glance. Part human, part chameleon; that was Ryan. 'It's just, you know, looking like Grizzly Adams' much uglier cousin, I thought maybe you might be thinking of ditching the whole college experience and … ' Seth faltered beneath his friend's icy scowl. 'Okay, I'll shut up now.'

Ryan grunted his approval. He knew what Seth was trying to do but he wasn't in any mood to help. All he wanted was coffee, and lots of it. Conversation could wait. Seth rustled his paper indignantly and pretended to read. Another time, it might have been amusing to watch his friend struggle for silence, but Ryan could find little humour in anything now. The paper would be full of news, day-to-day reports of a world that still turned, highlighting the triumphs and the tragedies of humanity and Ryan resented those who could pick up the pieces and get on with the business of living. Fuck the world.

'Okay, there's no easy way to say this, so I'm just gonna come right out with it,' Seth said at last, unable to contain himself any longer. Ryan didn't look at him, just kept staring at the counter, as though seeing something in the stone that no-one else could see, something for his eyes only.

'You look like shit, man. I get that you're upset. I get that you've got this whole Ryan Atwood brooding thing going on. I get that you probably blame yourself for what happened, even though it wasn't your fault. I even get that you're probably thinking it should have been you who died, instead of Marissa. But, dude, it wasn't. And you need to get over it.' Seth paused and considered his friend, whose hands now gripped the mug so tightly Seth worried it might shatter. More worrisome was the possibility that, before this happened, Ryan might hurl the mug at him. But he was in too deep now to back off, so in his usual fashion, Seth blundered on.

'You know, I used to think I was the self-absorbed one around here, but man, you've taken the title. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ryan Atwood – Champion Brooder and Grand Master of Self-Flagellation. Congratulations.' Seth held out his hand, poised for disappointment. This was the moment where Ryan would either turn and belt him, or get up and walk out. He didn't like those odds, and he definitely favoured the latter option, but he was willing to take his chances.

And this is why I'm not a gambler, he thought a minute later as Ryan, after an interminable and painful silence, reached across and grasped his hand. His grip was cold but strong and he squeezed Seth's fingers just a little too hard, but Seth's relief was too great to dampen the moment.

'Thanks,' Ryan muttered and more was said in that single word than might have been discerned by a casual observer. But Seth heard it, and all it contained, and he understood.

'You're welcome,' he replied simply, grateful that Ryan wasn't the hugging type.

Ryan got up and poured himself another coffee. His eyes still felt like sand-paper, but at least his head was clearing. He glanced across at Seth. 'How's Summer doing?' he asked. He didn't really care, he just wanted a diversion.

Seth shrugged. 'Okay, I guess. Upset, angry. We all are, you know,' he said; a not-so-subtle reminder that Marissa hadn't been Ryan's property and her loss was not his alone to mourn.

'Yeah,' Ryan muttered, grudgingly. But none of them had been there. None of them had heard her scream or held her in their arms until that moment when she had slipped away, quietly and without any of the drama that had always accompanied her. None of them had supported her limp weight as he had, hugging her to them in a futile attempt to halt the cooling of her body. None of them had struggled when the medics tried to take her away. None of them woke in nightly terror, reliving the accident over and over and over again, in a futile attempt to undo what he'd done.

As though reading his thoughts, Seth broke in upon his reverie. 'Seriously, Ryan. It's not your fault. You couldn't have done anything.'

Ryan turned and emptied his cup into the sink. 'Actually, I could.' But he didn't elaborate and, leaving Seth to ponder his words, left the house.

……………………………………………………………………………

'I guess it's weird, me sitting here, talking to you now. It's just … I never knew what to say to you then. We never knew what to say to each other, did we?' Ryan shifted uncomfortably on his haunches, his hand dangling the cigarette between his knees. He stared at the headstone and tried to assimilate the chiseled words with the girl he had known. _Beloved daughter_. _Dear friend_. _Touched the lives_ … _Her beauty_ … Beautiful. Ah, yes, she had certainly been that. Ryan had never known such beauty, had not dared believe that such a creature might want him.

'Do you remember what I said to you that first night? God, it was so lame,' Ryan laughed, but the harsh sound bore no happiness. 'When you asked me who I was, and I said, "Whoever you want me to be"? Except … except you never told me what that was, did you? I had to guess, and I got it wrong. Oh Christ, Marissa, I got it so wrong!' Angry now, he threw the butt away, watching it bounce off a nearby tombstone, dirtying someone else's resting place. What did it matter? It wasn't like they'd care. Just another remnant in this junkyard of bones.

The flowers on her grave were old now, dry stiff reminders of people's respect. Why do we respect the dead, when we give so little heed to the living? Ryan wondered. It was if death accorded you the privileges you should have enjoyed in life – peace, tokens of love and friendship, a secure, safe haven from the world. It was a cruel joke, just another of life's little ironies. He brushed his hand across his eyes and sighed, waiting for the anger to dissipate, even a little.

'So, I just wanted to say sorry. For everything. I know I need to let you go, but I can't and I don't know if it's because I don't want to, or because you won't let me. I don't know anything anymore. I just … I just -'

'You know talking to yourself is the first sign of madness.'

Ryan tensed, but didn't turn. He knew that voice and he closed his eyes when it continued because, for a moment, he could imagine Marissa standing there, her hands on her hips, a smile hovering on her lips, teasing him, and his heart stopped for a beat or two.

'At least, I hope that's what you're doing, because if you're not then you really are certifiable.' The voice had moved, it was above him now and a little to the side and he opened his eyes to see a pair of jean-clad legs. A prettily-shod foot was crushing a bouquet of flowers at the edge of the grave and Ryan felt his anger resurge, familiar and strangely comforting. The figure bent to kneel beside him. 'They don't talk back, you know, the dead.'

'What are you doing here?' Ryan muttered at last. He'd been wrong about respect; some people had no respect for the living or the dead.

Kaitlin frowned and held up a slim bunch of daffodils. 'Visiting my sister,' she said. Casually, she tossed the flowers so they rested askew on the other offerings, a bright smear on a browning palette. 'What's your excuse?'

Ryan didn't answer. He leaned forward and straightened the daffodils, remedying her careless contribution, then shook another cigarette from the packet.

'Can I bum one of those?' Kaitlin asked and Ryan was tempted to refuse; the sense of deja-vu was more than he could bear. Grimly, he held the packet out to her and watched as her slim fingers curled around the cigarette. He lit hers, then his own, and stood up. There was no point in staying now. He would come back again later.

'Do you miss her?' Kaitlin asked, before he could turn away and, just for a moment, he pitied her, that she had to seek an answer to that question from someone else. In so many ways she was the antithesis of her sister; but it might have been Marissa who'd asked that question, unsure of her own feelings, unable to share her thoughts.

'Do you?' he challenged softly.

Kaitlin looked away then, avoiding his eyes, seeing in them, perhaps, the shadow of the girl who lay below them. She sucked on the cigarette nervously, but Ryan waited. He would wait as long as he needed for her reply.

'Yes,' she admitted, finally. 'I don't know why – it's not like we were close or anything – but, yeah, I miss her.'

Ryan nodded and turned to leave.

'By the way?' Kaitlin raised her voice. 'You look like crap. I guess that's what love does to people, huh? Something else to look forward to.' He didn't have to turn back to know she was smiling.

'For you, maybe,' Ryan replied before walking away.

……………………………………………………………………………

'How long are we going to let this continue?' Kirsten asked, staring out the kitchen window to the poolhouse, with its closed doors and drawn blinds.

'What?' Sandy replied, distractedly. He really needed to read this report and Kirsten's interruptions were proving an unwanted annoyance. He should have stayed at the office.

'Ryan. How long are we going to put up with his … ' Kirsten searched for the right word, but failed. 'Behaviour,' she ended inadequately.

Sandy sighed and closed the file. 'Ryan blames himself for the accident. Nothing we say is going to change that. He needs to come to terms with it on his own.'

'No,' replied Kirsten, rounding on him. 'We've given him time. We've tried to help him. Nothing's working Sandy. He needs to see someone; a psychologist, a counselor. Someone who can offer him what we can't.'

'This is Ryan we're talking about, honey. It's not like he'll willingly pour his heart out to a stranger.'

'Better a stranger than no-one,' Kirsten said. 'I've tried. You've tried. We're getting nowhere. It's time to get the experts in.'

'You're making it sound as simple as spring-cleaning the house. This is not something that's going to be fixed overnight, Kirsten. This is going to take time and patience and it has to be something Ryan wants. And I don't think he knows what he wants right now.'

'How the hell do you know what he wants?' Kirsten snapped. 'Or what he needs? Can you honestly tell me if this was Seth, you'd sit back and let nature take its course? It's been over a month Sandy. He hardly comes out of that room and when he does he looks like hell.' She gripped the bench, her nails scratching the stone. 'I know he blames himself. I know he misses Marissa – we all do - but there are people out there better qualified than us to help him get through this.' She paused, gathering her thoughts. 'Ryan needs help, Sandy, and sneaking into the house and downing a bottle of brandy and a handful of sleeping tablets isn't going to do it. Believe me, I know.'

'It was hardly a bottle -'

'A bottle, a glass, a sip; it doesn't matter. My point is this house - this family - has ground to a halt since the accident and we're all too busy tip-toeing around Ryan to move on. College is right around the corner and … and ... ' She faltered, staring miserably at her husband.

'What?'

'And I'm afraid,' Kirsten sighed.

'Hey, hey,' Sandy soothed, moving around the bench to comfort her. 'What's wrong?'

Kirsten leaned against his chest, wrapping her arms around his body. 'I'm scared we're losing him, Sandy.'

'Nah!' Sandy scoffed gently. 'Ryan's grieving, honey. We need to give him space to do it, and time to do it in. He and Marissa had quite a history; it's going to take some doing to get past that. Besides, he's worked too hard to get where he is now. He's not going to throw all that away.'

'I hope you're right,' Kirsten murmured. 'There's something about him now, something distant and cold. When he's with us, it's like he's somewhere else; or wishes he was.' She shrugged helplessly. 'It scares me.'

'Okay, okay!' Sandy hugged her and kissed the top of her head. 'Give me a few days. I'll think of something.'

Kirsten drew back and looked up at her husband. 'That's the problem, Sandy. I don't think we have that much time.'

…………………………………………………………………………….

Had Ryan been privy to their conversation, he might have agreed with Kirsten; there was plenty to worry about. Hell, he was scaring himself. But sanity had no place here; too many other emotions were crowding in, taking over; rude and disruptive house-guests who'd overstayed their welcome. _Hey Ryan where's that place you and Marissa used to hang out take me there I wanna see it again Marissa's dead remember when you and Marissa made out on this bed for the first time man that was hot you've changed Ryan I can hardly recognize you I bet you wished you'd smashed Johnny from the get-go huh Marissa's dead dude you shoulda finished Volchok when you had the chance Marissa's dead and it's your fault you could have stopped him what's happened to you man you used to be so much fun she's dead she's dead she's in a hole in the ground and it's all your fucking fault …. _

No, sanity never got a look in with the party going on in his head.

**tbc**


	3. Chapter 3

**III**

All the world's a stage,  
And all the men and women merely players:  
They have their exits and their entrances;

**- Shakespeare **_"As You Like It"_

…………………………………………………………………………………….

Ryan dressed slowly, every movement mechanical. His body was still damp from the shower and his tank top clung in places it shouldn't. Pulling on his hooded sweater and jacket gave him a sense of comfort, like meeting old friends; those who, after a long absence, make you feel as though you'd seen them only yesterday. This was his uniform, dictated by the voices in his head. Those other clothes, the button-down shirts and preppy polos with their neat collars, they had been a costume he'd worn, an apt disguise for the part he'd played. But now it was time to step off the stage.

Pocketing his cigarettes and wallet, he switched off the light and left the poolhouse. He could see the others in the kitchen; Kirsten preparing dinner, Sandy holding court, waving his glass of wine in the air to punctuate his words; Seth laughing. Before, in that other life, the one on the stage where every movement had been directed, every scene played against a carefully painted backdrop of bright colours and imaginary figures, he would have been with them. He might even have been happy. He might have laughed, as Seth was, or perhaps have stood beside Kirsten, helping her, teasing her culinary skills, as they all did. They would have talked of the future, of college and beyond, daring to dream, just a little afraid, as we all are, of how those dreams might end. But that was before. Now he was no longer part of that company. He had returned to his seat in the audience, a paying guest allowed a glimpse of fantasy; how long he stayed to watch would be up to him.

He opened the door and entered the kitchen, wincing as the happy noise died and they turned to look at him.

'Ryan! Come and join us,' Sandy urged, beckoning him with a smile too bright. He glanced at Ryan's clothes and cocked an eyebrow.

'Uh ..' Ryan shifted uncomfortably.

'Will you have some dinner?' Kirsten asked. He looked at her, seeing in her eyes the words she wished she could say.

'Yeah, man, don't abandon me in my hour of need,' Seth pleaded mockingly. He turned to Kirsten and said plaintively, 'Whatever happened to takeaway?'

'C'mon,' Sandy insisted and moved forward to bring him into their circle, a prodigal son returning to the fold.

Ryan held up his hands and shuffled back. 'No. Uh, I have things to do.' He paused, then added, 'Thanks, anyway.'

'Things? What things?' Seth questioned. 'If I'd known a flimsy excuse like that would get me out of eating Mom's cooking, I'd have tried it years ago.'

'Surely these … things … they can wait?' Sandy said. Kirsten pursed her lips and frowned.

Ryan ducked his head, avoiding their concern. 'No. Sorry.' He skirted around them and headed for the door.

'Ryan?' Seth called. 'Wait up, man. I'll come with you. Ryan!'

But the words echoed in the empty hall. Ryan was gone.

……………………………………………………………………………...

Julie pushed the man into the living room and closed the door. She'd already drawn the drapes and the lights were low. Another time, it might have made the perfect romantic rendezvous, but this was not such a time. Her need for secrecy stemmed from a much darker intent.

'So, Jules, it's been a long time,' Lance said, his eyes skimming over the room, missing nothing, eventually bringing his gaze back to her, leaning against the door, arms crossed, that smugly superior look that he knew so well painting her features. 'You look good.'

'Thanks,' she drawled. 'But I didn't ask you here to flatter my ego. I need your help.'

Lance arched an eyebrow. 'Now, what could I possibly do to help you? It looks like you have everything you want right here.' He paused, then added, 'Unless the good doctor isn't … uh … accommodating enough for you?'

'Don't be ridiculous!' Julie snapped. She didn't question how he'd known of Neil's identity. If anything, his knowledge reassured her that he was the right man for the job. But she had to be careful; even Lance might balk at what she was about to suggest; perhaps a little honey to sweeten the deal may be just what he needed. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her dress and sauntered over to him, a smile playing on her lips.

'Of course,' she crooned, snaking a hand over his arm. 'There's no harm in a little reminiscing.'

He didn't shake her off but, lifting her chin, he held her gaze and said quietly, 'I'm sorry about your daughter.'

It was enough. Julie dropped her hand, any coyness banished by his words. She drew a hand across her eyes and said, curtly, 'Sit down, Lance. We need to talk.'

He settled on the sofa, lifting his feet and laying them with casual arrogance across the coffee table. Julie frowned, but made no comment. Antagonizing him would get her nowhere. She reached into the file on the table and withdrew two photographs, sliding them across to him.

'I need you to take care of them.' There. She'd said it, as easily as though ordering lunch at her favourite restaurant. Perhaps this wouldn't be so hard after all.

Lance leaned forward and perused the pictures; one, a clear shot of a young man, dirty blond hair falling over his eyes, smiling. He was gazing at someone or something outside the frame and he looked happy; the other, taken at night, featured a different boy, tall and lean. Lance tapped the first photo. 'I know this kid, seen him before. The other one … who is he?'

Julie tried to keep her voice neutral. 'He's the bastard who ran Marissa off the road that night.'

Lance glanced at her sharply. 'So why are there two photos?'

'The other one … Ryan …' she drew a breath before continuing, 'was driving the car that went off the cliff … with Marissa.'

Lance sank back, leaving the pictures on the table. He watched as Julie twisted her hands together. He'd lied about her looking good. Actually, she looked terrible, drawn and pale and her eyes, which had always been calculating, were now as ice, frozen reminders of the woman he'd known.

'The way I heard it, it was an accident,' he remarked casually.

'Well, you heard wrong,' Julie hissed. 'Those boys killed my daughter. I want them to pay.'

Lance leaned forward again, his eyes narrowed. 'You need to be a little more specific, Jules. What exactly are you asking me to do?'

Julie blinked and swallowed. Now the moment had come, what was it she wanted? An eye for an eye? Or did she just want to relieve herself of the utter helplessness she'd felt since Marissa's death; that awful, empty need for revenge that ate at her soul every minute of every day? She straightened, resolved. 'I want them gone, Lance. I don't care what you do or how you do it. Just get rid of them.'

Lance nodded and picked up the photos, pocketing them. 'It'll cost you. And I want it up front.'

Julie breathed more easily now. The ugliness had been dealt with and she was on familiar ground again. 'Of course. How much?' There was no point beating around the bush. Lance would call it and she'd pay.

'Two fifty,' he replied quickly. She nodded slowly, accepting his price. 'Each,' he added.

Julie gasped. 'But that's … half a million dollars!'

Lance grinned and shrugged. 'Let's put it down to unfinished business.'

Julie, at least, had the grace to blush.

………………………………………………………………………………...

Ryan scaled the wall easily, dropping lightly to the turf below. He didn't know why people bothered with fences and locked gates; there was always a way around such obstacles if one was desperate enough. Not that many would seek to enter a cemetery at night, he acknowledged wryly; just kids or vandals and he was neither of those. Not this time. He glanced around, trying to get his bearings.

The moon wasn't full, but there was enough light to see by as Ryan crossed the graveyard slowly. He wasn't afraid; superstitions were for those who had nothing else to fear, and it wasn't the first time he'd wandered a cemetery at night. All the same, everything looked different in the dark, and it was a while before he found what he was looking for. He crouched and gently touched the headstone.

'Hey. It's me,' he murmured. The flowers were gone now, even Kaitlin's posy, and the stone was as an altar, hard and unforgiving. A beetle, black blemish upon polished granite, crawled slowly across the surface and Ryan flicked it away in disgust. But it was not enough to thwart nature's purpose and Ryan sighed; whatever measures he took to safeguard Marissa's grave could not halt her decomposition. Life had no power over death.

He settled more comfortably on the ground and lit a cigarette, relishing the acrid smoke. It wasn't an act of defiance, this return to smoking; like his clothes, he sought comfort from habits of old, retreating behind their defenses as a soldier seeks safety upon the battle-ground before being sent out again to war. But the war that raged inside Ryan could not be evaded; there were no bunkers or trenches in which he might hide or gather his strength. The onslaught was relentless and, like any soldier in any army he was not privy to the reasons behind it, knowing only that it was being masterminded by his memories of the girl who lay beneath him. His memories and his guilt.

Had anyone asked, he could not have said what bound him to this girl. He'd thought all the ties between them had been caught and woven into a single strand of friendship, strong and durable and, like any attachment, preserved by fondness and love. But what he felt now was neither of those things and he was trapped in a web of recrimination and self-reproach.

'I miss you,' he said now, his voice low and gravelly with an emotion he could not release. 'I miss you so much and I don't know why. I mean, it's not like we were together. It's not like I wasn't happy you were leaving … because I was.' He paused, gathering his words. It was absurd, but he wanted to speak truthfully, without hurting her, without tarnishing his memory of her. _Don't speak ill of the dead_. Isn't that how it went? He'd never understood its relevance until now. 'I was happy for you; you were going to be with your dad, on a yacht, a million miles from all this … from me. But more than that, I was happy for me too; you'd be gone, and I could get on with things here and not have to worry about you or wonder if … if … maybe we'd made a mistake. But now you're gone, really gone, and it's all I think about, Marissa, every fucking minute of the day.' His voice broke and he bowed his head, his eyes closed, his jaw set. _Breathe. Just breathe._

'So I guess that's what I came to say,' he continued finally. 'That I made so many mistakes. Too many, right from the start. That night in the model home … I should have let you stay. I keep thinking that things would be different if I'd given you what you wanted. Not just then, but every time. And then, stealing that car … Volchok … getting you involved … I didn't want to tell you and you should never have asked. But it didn't matter, did it, because you came through. You didn't judge me, just gave me a way out and … oh shit, Marissa, look where it got you! Why didn't you say no? _Why?_ Why was it always so fucking hard for you to say no?' Self-loathing had changed into something uglier and he stopped himself. He hadn't come here to blame her. There was nothing to blame her for. The fault lay with him. He struggled to breathe, his chest tightening.

'I hate not having you around,' he muttered. 'I hate that everyone watches me, waiting to see what I do, waiting for me to fall apart. I hate being so alone. But you know what I hate most of all? His voice had dropped to a whisper now, conspiratorial and miserable. 'I hate that I made you feel the same way.'

He let his hand drop to the stone, felt its coldness seep into his flesh, numbing it. Was this how death felt? Was Marissa this cold too, in her dark bed beneath the earth? He wished he knew and if she was he wanted to share that chill, so he could deaden his pain. Unconsciously, his fingers raked the stone and when he spoke his voice was distant and hollow.

'I don't know if I can fix things, but I'll try. And when I'm done, maybe we'll both be free.'

……………………………………………………………………………………...

Lance flicked open the briefcase, glanced at the contents and let the lid drop.

'Aren't you going to count it?' Julie asked. She was nervous and it showed. His quiet acceptance of the money made everything seem so premeditated and so final. She eyed the room with distaste; why did Lance always choose the seediest motels?

'I trust you,' he replied. 'I'm surprised to see you here so soon, though. I thought it would take longer for you to come up with the cash.' He gestured to the briefcase. 'Won't the good doctor miss all this?'

Julie's eyes narrowed. 'It's not his to miss,' she snapped.

'Really? A few months ago, Jules, you were living in a trailer park without a cent to your name. What happened? You win the lottery?'

Provoked and haughty, she drew herself up, every inch the affronted Newpsie; one could joke about careers, friends, lifestyle, even family, but never, _ever_ about money. 'If you must know, it was a wedding present from Neil, so that I'd never have to worry again about being broke, so I could always provide for the girls.' She blinked away the tears that pooled in her eyes. 'I guess you could say that's what I'm doing.'

Lance regarded her coolly. Waste of money in his opinion, but it was hers to waste and revenge was a funny thing; one never knew just how far people were prepared to go. He nodded curtly. 'Okay, good. I just wanted to make sure what happened last time didn't repeat itself. If I do this, I don't want the money being traced to me.'

'Well, it's comforting to know chivalry is officially dead,' scoffed Julie. 'Don't worry Lance, the only thing that might bring this down upon your head is if you make a mistake. There's nothing that can be traced to you … or to me. I hope you understand that.'

He stepped forward, backing her against the wall of the small, dingy room. She hoped she wasn't leaning against anything unsavoury; her Chanel blouse was new.

'Now we've taken care of business, how about some of that reminiscing you seemed so keen on the other day,' he muttered, lowering his face to hers. And as his mouth pressed against her neck, his tongue tracing a cold wet trail to her ear, Julie felt the first misgivings of one who has just made a deal with the devil himself.

…………………………………………………………………………………...

'Ah, here he is!' Sandy announced, as Ryan entered the kitchen. Again, that too-bright voice, that too-large smile. Sandy was going to crack if he kept this up, Ryan thought. He hovered on the threshold, wishing he could turn around and leave again. Kirsten and another woman, suited and sombre, someone corporate, one of Sandy's clients maybe, turned to look at him and a ridiculous silence descended as though all the players had forgotten their lines and were waiting for some kind of cue.

'Uh, hi.' Ryan was the first to speak. His eyes slid sideways like a trapped animal seeking a bolt hole.

Sandy beckoned him in. 'Ryan, this is Detective Collins, from the Bureau of Investigations. She's here to talk to you about the accident.' Sandy's joviality was grating and Ryan wanted to tell his guardian to shut the fuck up.

The woman stepped forward, a badge flashing in her left hand, her right extended. 'Hi Ryan. Pleased to meet you.' Ryan wished he could say the same. He ignored her offered hand, and looked at Sandy quizzically.

'I know, I know. We all thought this was over and done with, but the police want to close the file and they just need to go over everything one more time.' Sandy's voice dropped, all conviviality gone. 'I told them you'd be happy to co-operate.'

Ryan eyed them all suspiciously and sighed. He'd thought he was done with the interviews, the statements, the dredging up of details. Clearly, he'd been mistaken. 'Sure. Whatever.' He glanced at the woman before him. She was young, slim, attractive and her gaze clear and direct. She didn't look like any detective he'd ever encountered, and he'd seen his fair share. 'What do you want to know?'

She glanced at Sandy and Kirsten, a little embarrassed. 'Actually, I was hoping we could talk alone. To start with I'd like you to take me to the crash site, so I can get a clearer picture of what happened …' her voice trailed off, just the right amount of hesitancy tinged with encouragement.

A muscle twitched in Ryan's cheek. 'Haven't you got a file of photos? Why do you need to go there? Why do you need me?' he challenged.

She didn't flinch and when she answered her voice was low and even, 'This is how we operate, Ryan. You can help me, or you can choose not to. But the file won't be closed until I'm satisfied that your story hasn't changed.'

Another silence; Sandy studied his shoes, Kirsten stared at some invisible smear on the counter and Detective Collins stared at Ryan. He glanced at his watch.

'Now?' he asked finally.

'Whenever you're ready,' she replied calmly.

Ryan shrugged mutinously. 'Let's get it over with.'

She turned back to Sandy. 'I'll be in touch.'

Sandy nodded and watched them leave, Ryan striding down the hall, Maggie racing to keep up with him.

'I hope this works,' Kirsten said behind him.

'She's the best in the business,' Sandy replied.

'She's a forensic psychologist, Sandy. She's used to dealing with criminals, murderers. Ryan's not a murderer!'

Sandy turned and hugged her, stroking her back, soothing her fears. 'You and I know that. But Ryan believes he as good as killed Marissa; and his guilt is killing him. Maggie's doing us an enormous favour.' He sighed. 'And for what's worth, I agree with you. I hope it works too, because if she can't get him to open up, no one can.'

………………………………………………………………………………...

Kaitlin listened distractedly to the conversation around her. She'd only been back two months and already this place bored her beyond belief. The girls beside her, chatting and giggling, as only teenagers can, were not the sort she would have chosen to hang out with, but she had little choice. If this was any indication of what the next two years held, she'd buy a gun and shoot herself. Now. Idly, she stirred her coffee and gazed out the window. From her vantage point in the corner of the booth, she could see down the pier, to the ocean beyond and her longing to escape deepened.

The pier was dotted with people, strangers who paced the confines of the wooden platform, going nowhere. A boy skated by, weaving through the pedestrian traffic, nimble and quick. A couple held hands and shared an ice-cream, love overcoming the melting of shared saliva. A mother waddled in the wake of four children, shouting first at one and then another. A group of girls laughed and teased the gang of boys who followed behind them with hungry eyes. And over there, in the shadows by the ramp, two men argued. Kaitlin watched as something passed between them, in the guise of a reluctant handshake, and she grinned. Well, perhaps there was some hope after all.

One of the men turned then and stared in her direction, and though she knew he could not see her through the tinted glass of the diner window, his narrow eyes chilled her and she shrank back, turning to her companions, who'd noticed nothing. When she glanced back, the men were gone, their deal – whatever it was – done.

But Kaitlin didn't need to see his face again. She already knew who he was. She sipped her coffee in silence, a small smile playing upon her lips. Newport, it seemed, was about to get a whole lot more exciting.

**tbc**


	4. Chapter 4

**IV**

I've seen better days  
Put my face in my hands  
Get down on my knees and I pray to God  
Hope he sees me through till the end.

- **_Pete Murray_**,_ "Better Days"_

…………………………………………………………………………………….

Maggie Collins drove slowly, thinking of the challenge that lay ahead and of the young man beside her who carried his pain before him like a shield. He'd said nothing since leaving the house and she took advantage of the silence to ponder the options open to her. _Well, this is a fine way to spend your holiday,_ _Maggie, _her father's voice chided her and she grimaced. _You work too hard, girl. What happened the holiday? Where are those tickets I sent you? _Cashed in, thanks Dad, she thought wryly. Cash in the bank or two weeks battling rude tourists glistening with Factor 30; it hadn't been a hard choice, especially after the call. But now, having met Ryan and put his haunted face to the file, she wondered about the wisdom of answering Sandy's plea for help.

'_Sorry Sandy, if you could see my desk right now, you'd understand. I simply don't have the time.' She didn't mention she was due to fly to Hawaii in two days' time with the long-suffering boyfriend on a vacation she didn't need or want, but had been ordered to take; hence the need to leave her work in some kind of ordered chaos. 'Besides, it's really not my area of expertise. I can recommend Phil Haughton, though, at Belvedere Psych. He's got a good track record with PTSD victims, consults for the National Centre. Hang on, I'll get you his number-'_

'_No,' Sandy replied. 'That won't work.' There was a brief silence before he continued, his voice hesitant, strained. 'The problem is Ryan won't see anyone … at least not anyone he thinks might be trying to get inside his head, to help him.'_

'_So … what are you suggesting?' Maggie asked, intrigued despite herself. She paused with her hand on the rolodex._

'_I thought maybe you could see him in your … shall we say, official capacity?'_

_Maggie slowly digested this, trying to quell her anger. 'Just so we're on the same page here, you're asking me to drop everything I'm doing, all of which happens to be pretty damn urgent by the way, to come and hoodwink a kid, who actually doesn't want to be helped in the first place?' _

'_There! I knew you'd understand.' Sandy managed to sound chastened, but Maggie knew him too well._

_She took a deep breath. 'Got a pen? Phil's number is-'_

'_Maggie, just do me a favour? Read the file before you say no.'_

_She surveyed the pile of paperwork on her desk and on the chair next to her desk and on the floor all around her desk, closed her eyes and muttered. 'Fine. Send me the file and I'll get back to you in a few weeks.'_

'_You already have it. I sent it two days ago,' Sandy said quietly. 'Call me tonight.' And he'd hung up._

_Cursing, Maggie rummaged through her in-tray, finally locating a large brown envelope. She weighed in gently in her hands and whispered, 'Damn you, Sandy Cohen.'_

So lost was she in her thoughts, she overshot the crash site, veered onto the verge and skidded to a stop. The car behind her, which had been tailgating for the last few miles, swerved and honked indignantly. She flipped him the finger and reversed fifty yards. It was important that the place where Ryan's car had careered over the edge was in plain view.

'Idiot,' she muttered, switching off the engine. Ryan didn't appear to notice anything untoward; he froze and stared at the embankment. The skid marks were still visible and, despite the passage of time, to the trained eye it was easy to see where the car had gone over. Sandy had assured her Ryan had refused to revisit the place since the accident, and judging from the stiffening in his body and his breathing, which was coming in short, shallow heaves, she could see he was right. And that was a good thing, because a lot hinged on his reaction to what he saw today. And on what she said.

Or didn't say, she mused minutes later. She cursed Sandy again. Glancing across at Ryan, she saw he was pale, his face filmed with sweat. 'Do you want to get out? Get some fresh air?' she asked. He shook his head violently, so she hit the automatic switch to lower the window. Involuntarily, he gulped at the cool air that blew in and closed his eyes. She felt sorry for him, for making him relive this pain, but she knew it was only the first step. Worse things lay ahead for him.

Maggie began slowly, careful to stick to the script she'd rehearsed over and over in her head. 'So, you were driving Marissa to the airport. Everything's fine until you're rammed by the other car, driven by Kevin Volchok. You said in your statement he had someone in the car with him, but you couldn't see who it was?' She didn't pause, the question was rhetorical and she doubted Ryan would have confirmed her words. 'This Volchok then accelerates to get alongside and tries to head you off. You lose control of the vehicle and go over the edge. The car rolls down to the road below. You get yourself out and pull Marissa free.' She studied the scene impassively. 'But she's dead.' She flipped through the pages on her lap. 'At least that's what it's says here. Is there anything missing? Anything you want to add?'

Again, Ryan shook his head. He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. Now it was her turn to shake her head. 'Not in here, sorry. Government car. You want to light up, you're going to have to get out.'

He stared at her balefully for a minute, before stuffing them back into his jacket. She thought for a moment, then tried a different approach. 'You and Volchok had a history, apparently. You and Marissa dated on and off for a couple of years, then she and Volchok … Was Volchok acting out his jealousy?' It wasn't difficult to believe; she'd seen enough evidence in her career to understand the frailties of human emotion, that what might start as a simple case of misunderstanding and misplaced love could spiral out of control, manifesting itself in sudden and violent rage. So why was she plagued with this feeling of dread, sparked by an unfailing intuition that there was more to this than had been said?

Ryan sat, staring at his hands which had balled into tight fists, white knuckles shining against brown flesh.

'Was that what happened, Ryan?' she asked again, prodding him.

'I dunno. You've got the report. You tell me.' He wasn't trying to be smart, but his reluctant drawl annoyed her. She sighed. This would teach her to be snooty about tourists, she thought.

'I don't know what to think, Ryan.' Maggie waved the file. 'There's not a lot in here to go on. For instance, it doesn't say why you didn't try to pull over after he rammed you the first time. That would have been the safer option, yes?'

He hissed, a long painful sigh through clenched teeth. She'd hit a nerve, and it made her press harder. 'Knowing you were responsible for another person … for Marissa … why didn't you just stop?'

He moaned and bent his face into his hands. She wanted to reach out and comfort him, but couldn't. She could show no mercy here; gentle understanding would come later but for now she had to needle him, make that first prick to release the infection that was festering inside him, consuming him. He began to mutter beside her: _Fuck, fuck, fuck …_ a coarse litany of despair. She knew he was longing to escape, but his fear of getting out of the car outweighed his fear of her.

'It's okay,' she assured him, her voice bright. 'I get it. You were afraid. Was that it, Ryan? Were you scared of Kevin Volchok?'

'Yes!' he shouted. 'Yeah, I was afraid. I was scared of what he might do to her, okay? I wanted to get her away from him.' His voice broke and she almost missed his last words. 'I needed to keep her safe.'

She didn't flinch at his outburst, just stared at him, and the words she needed to hear, those he could not say, danced between them so clearly they might have been written in blood: _But I couldn't._

Closing the dog-eared folder, she threw it onto the back seat, and started the engine. 'Okay, that's enough for now,' she said and turning the car, headed back to Newport.

…………………………………………………………………………….

Summer stared at the jumble of clothes on her bed and sighed. This was proving harder than she'd thought, packing a lifetime into a couple of suitcases. Glancing around, she wished she could click her fingers and have her entire room transported magically to Brown. Except she wouldn't take that photo of her and Marissa at graduation, or the bed she'd shared so often with her best friend, or Marissa's blouse that she'd borrowed and forgotten to return, or the thick woolly scarf Coop had given her as a going away present, the one she'd wrapped around Summer's neck and stood back to admire, her large eyes filled with warmth, her wide mouth smiling gently. _Think of me when you wear it_. Summer slumped onto the mattress. No, she wouldn't take any of those things.

'Er … going somewhere?' Seth asked, stepping over piles of clothes and she felt momentary irritation, as she always did, that he hadn't knocked. She dabbed at her eyes, and grabbed a handful of clothes, stuffing them into the bottom of the case.

'Packing for Brown,' she announced, her voice falsely bright.

'About a month too early,' Seth replied slowly.

She took a deep breath. 'Actually, I'm leaving in a few days,' she said, wincing as his face fell. She hadn't meant for him to find out like this, but hey, he was the one who'd barged in.

'Oh. And you were going to tell me … when?'

'When I asked you to drive me to the airport,' Summer said slowly, looking at him miserably. He stepped forward and sat beside her, his confusion evident. 'I can't stay here any more, Cohen. It's … it's too … there are too many memories,' she finished awkwardly, wondering why it was so hard to say what they both knew. She elbowed him gently. 'Besides, you know how I hate the cold. I figure this way my body will have time to adjust.' It was a lame joke and he didn't smile.

'But you'll come back, right? For Thanksgiving? Like we planned?'

'Or maybe you could come visit me?' she replied, answering the one question he hadn't asked.

Seth sighed. 'Wow. So this is it? I mean, I knew this was going to happen, but not this soon.' He turned to Summer, his eyes sombre. This was a Cohen she rarely saw, the one behind the banter and the nonsensical jokes, one who wore his heart on his sleeve, unmindful that it lay exposed. 'I don't think I'm ready to let you go.'

'Sorry, Cohen,' she said, patting his arm. 'But you don't get to decide.'

He blinked. 'I know,' he said, his voice lightening with hope. 'Maybe I could come with you. You know, get a job, settle in while I'm waiting.' He looked whimsical. 'I've always fancied working in a diner … or maybe I could get a job selling newspapers on a street corner … or … yeah, this is a good one … what about a bouncer?' He flexed an arm, showing sinewy muscle. 'Yeah,' he mused. 'That might-'

Summer muffled his words with a hand across his mouth. 'Stop, Cohen! Just stop.' She let go and took one of his hands between hers, kneading it softly. 'I don't want you to come,' she said finally. 'Not yet. The whole point of this is to get away … from everything. Even you.' She cringed at his unhappiness. 'Being with you just reminds me of her, and I need some space to deal with that. Please try to understand that. Besides, you need to stay here for Ryan. He needs you more than I do.'

'Sure,' he muttered at last, trying to ignore the pain her words had inflicted. 'I guess I can do that.'

She nodded and cupped his face, turning it to her, lowering it so his forehead touched hers. 'You'll be okay and January's not so long away.'

Actually, Seth thought, it's a lifetime. And though he sat on her bed, being comforted by the girl he'd loved and admired since he could remember; though he knew this was not forever; though he understood that he would see her again and maybe, just maybe, they could put behind them the hurtful memories of a life lost that seemed, in turn, to be ruining so many others; though he knew all this, Seth felt, in his heart, the terrible chill of loneliness return.

………………………………………………………………………………

Ryan trudged up the steps to the poolhouse, watching his feet, thankful that they were able to function without any direction from his brain. _Left, lift, right, lift, left._ He raised a hand to open the door, pausing when he realized there was no need, and he stopped, staring at the girl on his bed. She was facing away from him, her gaze directed to something on her lap, unaware she was being watched. Her long hair hung straight, cascading down her back in silken waves and her tall lithe body was clad simply in a white tee-shirt and black cut-offs. Bathed in the soft light of a sun tired of its day's work she was ghostly, ethereal. His heart lurched and he tried not to blink, lest the image fade and dissolve.

'Marissa?' he called hoarsely, stepping into the room. The figure turned and smiled and disappointment consumed him. It was her, and it wasn't. The same smooth skin, the same clear gaze, but where Marissa's eyes had been wide and warm, these were narrowed and bleak, and in the place of Marissa's playful smile was a sly coyness. She stood and faced him, slipping whatever she'd been holding into her bag.

'No, but I can pretend to be, if it helps,' she replied archly.

He shuddered and rubbed his eyes. When he spoke at last, his voice was flat, devoid of any of the emotion he had just displayed. 'What do you want, Kaitlin?'

'Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to make sure you were okay?'

He stared at her in distaste. She was so much like her mother and it wasn't right that people like them always survived; clawing their way out of whatever hole they'd fallen into, while others, Marissa and Jimmy, drifted in their wake, hapless debris tossed into a fickle wind. He thought of Trey and himself; there was just no accounting for genes.

'No, I guessed as much,' she replied to his silence, walking around the bed towards him.

'How did you get in here?' he demanded.

'Kirsten let me in. Said I could wait here.' She arched a delicate brow. 'I guess she felt sorry for me, what with my sister having died and all. Oh, but I forgot! You were there, weren't you?' Her cruelty stung and he closed his eyes as though slapped.

'Get out,' he snarled, moving past her and shrugging off his jacket. Unconsciously, he flexed his arms, every muscle itching to pick her up and push her out the door.

'Temper, temper,' she chided. 'You haven't heard what I came to tell you.'

'I'm not interested, Kaitlin,' he said, suddenly tired. His shoulders slumped and, for a moment she almost pitied him. And then she remembered her boredom, and her mother's preoccupation with a sister who, even dead, managed to take centre stage. And when she spoke her voice was petulant.

'Oh, but you will be. I saw someone today, down at the pier. Someone I think you might want to know about.' At his failure to show any interest, she grew impatient. 'Volchok's back in town.'

There. His sudden stillness, that deep coldness that blanketed the room and made her shiver with anticipation, the glimpse of rage she was accorded before he shuttered his expression behind a well-worn mask. That was what she had come for. And it excited her.

'So, aren't you going to thank me?' she asked, sidling up to him.

Instinctively, he stepped back, his face blank, his voice hollow. 'Thanks. I'll be sure to pass it onto the police.'

'Yeah,' she challenged softly, turning towards the door. 'You do that, Ryan.' She sauntered away, aware he was watching her, and she hugged her bag to her body; just in case, she thought. After all, there was more than one way to skin a cat.

…………………………………………………………………………….

'Thanks for meeting me,' Maggie said, as Sandy handed her the styrofoam cup. The strong scent of coffee teased her and she leaned over the railing, breathing in the steam.

'I was glad you rang,' Sandy replied. 'How's the motel?'

She wrinkled her nose. 'Just like any other.'

He smiled. 'Sorry. It was all I could find at short notice.' She shrugged off his apology and for a minute they both stared out at the ocean, dwarfed by its expanse and its unceasing motion. Such things are there to humble us, Maggie thought suddenly, to remind us that we're not immortal.

Sandy was the first to break the silence. 'So, how did it go?'

'Like I said, Sandy, this is really not my area.' She smiled wryly. 'Give me a criminal mind any day.'

He studied her seriously. 'Can you help him?'

Maggie shrugged. 'I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. You're right that he feels responsible. I managed to get that out of him, at least.'

'Well!' Sandy exclaimed. 'That's something, right? It's a start.'

'Yeah,' she acknowledged. 'But a very small one, and it's nothing we didn't already know.' She paused. 'Sandy, that's not why I called you; Ryan's hiding something. Something he hasn't told anyone and I'm worried it concerns events leading up to the accident.'

'Sorry, I'm not with you.'

Maggie sighed. 'Up until now we've assumed that the accident was just that. Maybe the other kid had been drinking, maybe it was just bad luck, maybe he was overcome with a sudden jealous rage. But what if it wasn't an accident?' She turned to look at him as her words penetrated.

'You'd never be able to prove it was premeditated,' Sandy protested.

She waved him to silence. 'I know, I know. My point is, these things never just happen, Sandy. There is nearly always a reason for them. I may not be qualified to deal with Ryan's emotions, but one thing I do know is how to interpret the facts. And I'm telling you that something happened between Ryan and Volchok before that night. Something he's not telling us. Something he may never tell us.'

'Marissa?' Sandy asked, hopeful but uncomprehending.

Maggie shook her head. 'Marissa's only half the answer. And, unless we can find out the rest, there's no telling how this is going to pan out.' She waited for him to digest that before continuing. 'And there's more.'

Sandy sighed. It was why he'd asked her to help, of course, but he wasn't sure he liked where this was heading. 'Go on,' he said, sipping a coffee that had suddenly soured.

'Again, it's just a feeling, but I think there may be more to his story about how Marissa died. All his statements say that she was already dead when he pulled her from the car …'

'But you don't think so?' Sandy's voice was hollow and Maggie felt for him. It wasn't easy for a parent to understand a child's trauma.

She spread her hands. 'I don't know. As I said, it's just a feeling.'

Sandy smiled wanly. 'That's what I hired you for, and I'd trust your intuition over any evidence.' He sighed. 'Sorry, Maggie. I didn't realize it was going to be this complicated.'

She gulped at the sea air, relishing its saltiness; if she closed her eyes, she could at least imagine Hawaii. 'That's okay. It's not like I have anywhere else to be.'

Sandy thanked her with a nod. 'So, what happens now?'

'I'll write up my notes, maybe see him again tomorrow. It's going to be a case of one day at a time, Sandy. And you have to understand, I'm working against the clock here. If I don't make any headway in the next few days, you're going to have to hand him over to someone else. Someone who can take him on long term.'

She waited for his assent before they parted. And as he walked away, his usual jaunty stride diminished somehow, she was glad she hadn't mentioned her other misgiving, the one that really worried her, that during her session with Ryan he hadn't once demanded to know whether the police had located Kevin Volchok.

**tbc**


	5. Chapter 5

**V**

It warms the very sickness in my heart,  
That I shall live and tell him to his teeth,  
'Thus diddest thou.'

**Shakespeare,** _'Hamlet'_

……………………………………………………………………………….

Maggie walked slowly through the cemetery, pausing to consult the rough sketch Sandy had drawn for her. He'd offered to come with her, but she'd declined, not wanting the grief of others to distract her from what she was hoping to find. Not that she knew what that was. Like a blind man down a mine shaft, she was feeling her way through this case, inch by inch.

She didn't like cemeteries, hadn't since she was a little girl. It was strange really, considering her profession that she hadn't grown more accustomed to death, but some things are too deeply ingrained. She glanced at the map again and turned left. She hadn't been able to find a groundsman who spoke English so, resigned, she trudged alone, map in hand, keeping her eyes peeled for signs to the 'Garden of Heavenly Rest'. God, graveyards gave her the creeps.

She looked at the map again, turned left and followed the path. There it was, just as Sandy described, the big tree with the pretty flowers. She hurried forward then stopped. A girl was there, bending over the grave, touching something. Maggie knew she should wait for the other person to leave. That was the right thing to do, wasn't it? But she didn't fancy hanging around and there was no telling how long the girl might be. She recalled her father, who had spent hours every day by her mother's grave; before he finally gave up, packed the family belongings and brought Maggie to LA.

She walked forward, slowly, debating the merits of a discreet cough. She could see now that it was a photo the girl had been touching, adjusting maybe, so that it rested angled against the headstone. She was young and probably beautiful, as all girls are these days, Maggie thought wryly, but her face was shielded by the fall of long, tawny hair. Maggie shuffled her feet impatiently and the girl whipped round, startled.

'Sorry. Didn't mean to intrude,' Maggie said brightly. _Liar._

The girl pushed her hair behind her ears. Maggie was right; she was beautiful. Tall and slim and shining with that radiance only the young possess.

'That's okay. I was leaving anyway,' she muttered, backing away.

'Don't go on my account,' Maggie said. 'I'm not staying.'

The girl looked at her askance. 'Do I know you?'

'I don't think so.' Maggie stepped forward and offered her hand, then dropped it when the girl didn't take it. 'I'm with the police.'

The girl's eyes narrowed then and flickered away. The problem with saying you were an investigator, Maggie knew, was that you never knew if the guilt that flashed on the faces of those you told was merely that reaction everyone had, like when you heard a siren and automatically checked your speedometer to see if you were over the limit, or if it stemmed from something else. _Inch by inch._

'And you are …?' Maggie asked.

'Kaitlin Cooper,' the girl muttered. 'Marissa's sister.'

'I'm sorry for your loss.' Silly words really, but they had to be said. It was all about manners.

Kaitlin shrugged. 'Whatever. You didn't know her, so what's to be sorry for?'

Maggie eyed her shrewdly. A tough one. But sometimes the tough ones were the first to crack, their shells hard but oh so very brittle. 'I was just being polite,' she replied. 'Have you been coming here often?'

Kaitlin regarded her scornfully. 'You kidding? Why would I want to come to graveyard?'

'Well, you're here now,' Maggie pointed out.

'Yeah, well, there was something I had to … do.' She looked around nervously, but Maggie hadn't missed the hesitation.

She pointed to the photo. 'Is that a picture of Marissa?'

'Yeah,' Kaitlin replied, shrugging again.

'May I?'

The girl shrugged sullenly. 'Knock yourself out.'

Maggie stepped forward and picked it up, gazing at the faces before her. If Kaitlin was beautiful, this girl was divine, languid and carefree, her hair fuller and tawnier than her sister's, her eyes more open, her mouth more generous. She was draped around Ryan, who also looked happy. And Maggie felt a tinge of sadness because she knew he would never feel quite the same again.

She'd read Marissa's files, of course; nothing heavy, just the usual juvenile stuff, some psychiatric analyses that spoke volumes about a troubled home life, school reports. There'd been the investigation into the shooting, something to do with Ryan's brother, but that had been closed satisfactorily. An expulsion followed by a reinstatement to Harbour, then the thing with the surfer boy who'd supposedly slipped and fallen to his death. Quite a lot for a short life, really, but she'd known worse. This was the first time she'd seen a picture of the girl whose life she'd studied, and she was taken aback. 'She was very beautiful,' she sighed.

'So everyone keeps telling me,' Kaitlin muttered. There was no mistaking the jealousy in her voice. Maggie sympathized. Who wanted a goddess for a sister?

'Did you leave this here?'

'No.' Another shuffle, another step back.

'I wonder who did.' Maggie murmured. And why. It wouldn't have been Ryan; that much she knew already. He was trying to hard to control his pain to leave something like this for all to see.

'Dunno. It was here when I came.' Kaitlin stared at Maggie, challenging her to say otherwise.

Maggie thought for a moment before replacing the photo and stepping back, out of Kaitlin's space. The girl visibly relaxed. Maggie hadn't known what she would find when she came here, but she was almost certain she'd discovered something important. If only she could figure out what it was, she thought wryly. At least now she could understand how Marissa must have pulled Ryan, like a moth to her luminescent flame. The poor kid hadn't had a chance. Had it been the same with Volchok? Was Marissa the link? Not the only one, Maggie conceded, revising her initial summation, but certainly a strong one, perhaps the strongest.

She smiled at Kaitlin. 'Sorry I intruded,' she apologized again and, turning, walked away. She didn't glance back and so missed seeing Kaitlin kick the gravestone before sinking to her knees beside it.

………………………………………………………………………………

'Are you sure you're ready to do this?' asked Kirsten, surveying the tidy room, a domestic shrine upon which she was wary of intruding. A scent lingered, evoking memories of a lissome body and sun-kissed skin, of rebellion and of kindness, but it was faint and just a little stale, the scent of a girl who'd expired. Kirsten shivered. A gentle breeze parted gauze drapes and, beyond them, she could see the ocean, uncaring and infinitely blue. Beside her, Julie drew a shuddering breath and smiled bleakly.

'Yes. I'm sure,' she said and, gripping Kirsten's forearm, led her to the closet. 'Let's start in here.' She rifled through the clothes that hung there, bright reminders of a life abandoned, and pulled out a long white satin gown. 'Remember Cotillion? Oh, she looked so beautiful that night!' then frowned, remembering the ugliness that had followed. 'Here!' she said, tossing it to Kirsten. 'Box it.'

'Are you sure?' Kirsten asked again, fingering the soft material and recalling not Marissa, but Ryan; his awkwardness leading up to that night, and his reluctant acceptance of a duty he'd not understood.

Julie eyed her with exasperation. 'Kirsten, don't look so worried. All this,' she waved her arms, 'Marissa had already discarded, so to speak. Everything she wanted to keep with her … well, they burned in the car,' she finished coldly, her eyes narrow, steely slits in a cleverly made up face. Then her mask was restored. 'And, frankly Kirsten, if you're going to question each and every item, this is going to take a lot longer than it needs to.'

Kirsten smiled wanly and carefully folded the gown before placing it in one of the boxes. 'Sorry,' she murmured, thinking only, _please call me Kiki. Just once_. But Julie merely tossed her a flimsy cotton sundress.

And so it went. Julie sorted, reminisced and threw to Kirsten who would catch, remember and fold sadly away; a macabre production line that ruthlessly robbed the room of its memories. Clothes, shoes, bags, accessories, jewellery, hats, those items that had defined Marissa, proclaiming her beauty and adorning her flesh, had served their purpose and were now defunct. And with every carefully stowed item, Kirsten buried another memory of Ryan. Or Seth. Or Summer.

Except for Julie's muttered nostalgia recalling this shopping trip, or that occasion, and Kirsten's murmured assents, they worked in silence until the closet was stripped and empty hangers rattled like bones in a family crypt.

'There,' Julie sighed, her sharp eyes scouring the shelves for anything they might have missed. But only dust, that companion of empty space, remained. She frowned and observed vaguely, 'I really must find a new cleaner,' before leaving the small room.

Kirsten didn't follow immediately, bowing her head in silent homage to the young life encased in cardboard. She wondered what Julie intended to do with all these belongings, but dared not ask. The other woman's determination unnerved her and she questioned, again, Julie's reasons for asking her to help. Since the accident, she'd barely seen Julie who'd cried a need for space, a time to grieve, unresponsive to all Kirsten's solicitations. And Kirsten had granted her that time and that space, guiltily relieved she hadn't had to witness the other woman's pain, or soothe with meaningful yet useless platitudes. And it was this guilt that saw her now standing in a dead girl's room doing the unimaginable; the same guilt that cued the same thought that resounded every moment of every day: _thank God it wasn't Ryan!_ And, as such thoughts do, this filled her with more remorse, so that she was trapped in an endless circle of blame.

Quietly, she exited the closet. Julie was at the mirror, slowly peeling away stubborn photos, her hands shaking as she gently arranged each one on the dresser in a tabloid of Marissa's life; hugging Summer; laughing with Johnny; pulling a face at Seth; standing with an arm draped carelessly around a much younger Kaitlin; cuddling Jimmy; more stiff beside her mother; each one a treasured memory, frozen forever. Julie's shoulders slumped and Kirsten reached out to her friend, intending to comfort.

'Don't touch me!' Julie hissed viciously and Kirsten recoiled, her hands fluttering nervously to her sides. 'Just … don't.'

A cold silence separated the two women, one grieving, one uncertain, and Kirsten regarded Julie's reflected features, venomous and unforgiving, bordered by snapshots of a more generous spirit. And it dawned on her that of all the pictures pasted to the glass, there were none of Ryan; just empty squares where he'd once figured and she knew, with sudden and terrible clarity, why she'd been brought here. She was being punished.

…………………………………………………………………………………..

Ryan slid out of the car and slammed the door, waiting mutinously until Maggie pulled away. Where he went from here was nobody's business and he watched until she merged into traffic and disappeared.

Of course, she wasn't stupid, and that was the problem, Ryan decided. Having had plenty of dealings with cops in the past, he had a vague idea of how they operated, the formulae they followed, and the routine questions they asked. But Maggie was not of that genre; her formula was unique and her questions far from routine. She unsettled him, at a time when he needed to stay focused.

Picking him up from the house, they'd driven back to the crash site, this time to the road where the car had finally come to rest. Relentlessly, ruthlessly, she'd probed with questions about his escape, pulling Marissa free, how he'd felt when he'd discovered she'd died, why he hadn't left the body to fetch help, how long he'd waited. But she'd interspersed these with other questions too, unexpected and harrowing, questions about Marissa, not about her death, but about her life, and questions about him, and his involvement with her and his feelings since losing her. How many times had he visited her grave – _only at night, Ryan?_ – Had he ever left anything there, a gift, a reminder perhaps? Did he intend going there again soon? Why? When? Did he think it helped? What did he do there? What did he say? Did he apologize when he spoke to her? How long would he keep doing that? Did he feel responsible? And so it went, for what seemed like hours. The only time he'd left the car was when he'd stumbled to the nearest bush and retched until he was dry. Apart from that, he'd given little away, but he wasn't sure that was a deterrent for Maggie. She seemed to glean as much from what he didn't say as from what he did. Then, despite her promise to Sandy to drop him back home after their session, she hadn't balked at his request to leave him instead in one of the seedier parts of town. No, Detective Maggie Collins wasn't stupid. Which begged the question, just what was she?

He crossed the junction, pushing thoughts of her to the back of his mind. He needed to concentrate on other things and, as he melted into the motley crowd who, having waited for the shadows to grow long were now sliding from their lairs to feast upon the coming night, he felt less numb; just a little less numb than before.

It took a few hours, but he finally found her, panda-eyed with stale and careless make-up, her scrawny body clad in a shapeless black tee-shirt and a skirt that left nothing to the imagination. But it was her face he remembered, hard and pinched, a face that had haunted and taunted in dismal dreams. She appeared to be alone, and as he watched her from the shadows he felt a bitter pang. Where was the justice? Where was God when you fucking needed Him? Well, fuck God, he thought sourly. What cause had anyone to believe in a divine plan, when this creature lived while Marissa had perished? There was nothing to rely upon, except oneself, Ryan knew that now. He'd always known it, but two years of an almost Utopian existence had blunted him, dulling his instinct. Those rules, those commandments everyone upheld, they weren't for him. Not anymore. They were for the faithless, the self-doubters, the ones who needed a divine reason to exist.

The crowd, swaying unsteadily to bad music, parted suddenly and he seized this opportunity to step forward, into the melee. Seizing her arm, and unmindful of her loud protests, he pulled down a dark corridor, shared only by girls queuing for the bathroom and a few couples making out. He pushed her up against the wall and, though it nauseated him to be so close, pressed an arm against her chest, pinning her shoulders. Her eyes were glazed, but she was lucid enough to recognize him and she began to struggle, like a moth caught in a spider's web. Viciously, she stabbed at him with her knee, but he swung away and pressed his arm harder against her. He would crush her chest. If he had to.

'Where is he?' Ryan demanded, his face inches from hers. He could smell her breath, the unwashed scent of her. But there was something else, something he recognized; the smell of fear.

'Let me go!' she hissed, spitting like a cat, and he pressed again. She gasped. 'I don't know who you mean. Let me go!'

'Not until you tell me where he is,' Ryan snarled, ignoring the stares of passers-by.

She struggled again, futilely, before she sagged heavily, her eyes flat, her lips pursed in a girlish pout. 'I haven't seen him!' she spat. 'He split after … you know …,'

That she couldn't even say the word incensed him enough to want to hurt her, and he clenched his fists. 'Well, I've got news for you,' he drawled. 'Volchok is back.' Her reaction told him everything he needed to know. 'And when he comes to see you – and he will - I want you to give him a message. Okay?' He waited for her to nod before continuing. 'Tell him it's not over. Tell him I'm waiting … to finish what he started. Understand?'

She was clearly still trying to digest what he'd said. He increased the pressure. 'Do you understand?' he shouted. She whimpered and nodded feebly.

He pushed away from her in disgust, and turned to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought, he returned and she shrank away from his cold anger.

'Why didn't you go to the police?' he asked at last, but if she heard the despair in his voice she gave no sign.

'Hey, man, it wasn't me driving that car!' she gasped.

Ryan didn't move, waiting for more, until finally relenting, she said, 'Volchok threatened to kill me if I ratted him out, okay? The guy's crazy.' She rubbed her chest, adding, 'And so are you, if you're thinking of taking him on.'

Ryan merely nodded. She had no idea the magnitude of his madness. He left her in that dingy corridor, which stank of alcohol and sweat and urine, the unwanted excesses of humanity. He left her there, uncaring that she was afraid, unmindful of her hateful screams that taunted: 'You tell him that, if you see him first! You tell him I kept my word. You fucking tell him!'

…………………………………………………………………………………..

Volchok was worried, as only the paranoid can be. He was being followed, he was sure of it, and it wasn't by the one he'd hoped to lure. This guy was a stranger, and though Volchok had already clocked him twice, though the man was clearly an amateur, such was the extent of Volchok's disquiet that, rather than confront the creep and beat a confession out of him, he'd fled, slipping between shadows that were now his only companions, his heart beating a little faster, his breath a little more shallow. The guy wasn't a cop, Volchok knew instinctively. And if he was a private dick, then he was wasting some schmuck's money. Even so, this could fuck everything up. The question was should he let this guy, whoever he was, tag along behind him until he'd done what he had to do, or should he deal with him now? And if he did deal with him, would that just bring everything down on his head so he missed his chance for revenge? He didn't know, and the not-knowing was driving him crazy.

It had been a mistake, coming back. Especially for a dead girl. But though it was his need to confirm the rumour of Marissa's death that had prompted his return, so that he might mutter at her graveside whatever apologies he could muster, his reasons had now changed. Irrevocably. Now he was consumed with a burning desire to make sure Atwood got what he deserved.

Fucking Atwood with his fucked-up attitude; hadn't wanted Marissa himself, but hadn't allowed Volchok to have her either. And because of that the girl was dead. Fucking dead. The last person Volchok had wanted to hurt had been the only one to end up in the morgue. Fucking figures, he thought bitterly. But it was Atwood's fault, not his. All he'd wanted was for Ryan to stop the damned car so he could talk to Marissa. Just talk. That's all he'd wanted to do. But that fuck wouldn't do it. He just kept going and going … right off the fucking cliff. Shit. Who knew the bastard couldn't drive?

This was what he told himself, each minute of each hour of each day, only dimly understanding if he heard it enough times it just might be true. And he'd had plenty of time to listen. He'd intended a brief return, to say his farewells to the only girl who had, too briefly, made him feel worthwhile, but after last night he knew he wouldn't be able to leave until he took care of things. Really took care of them, once and for all. Even if he had to crawl in and drag Atwood out of whatever hidey-hole he'd slunk into, he'd find that bastard and finish him off.

And it was this that ate at him, as a maggot feasts on dead flesh; when he'd gone to see Marissa again last night, as he sometimes did because even hanging out with the dead beat keeping himself company, there'd been that fucking picture, neatly framed, propped against the headstone; a happy moment, captured before Volchok had even entered her life, a moment in which she smiled with genuine delight, her arms wrapped around Ryan, while his hand curled casually but possessively on her waist. A reminder to all of what could have been. _How dare he? How dare that bastard leave it there, as though claiming her as his? Who the fuck did he think he was?_ And though he'd come to speak to her, to be comforted, to apologize yet again, maybe to say some things he hadn't dared say when she was alive because, if he had, he would have been vulnerable and she would have laughed mockingly; though he'd come to do all that, he'd said none of it. Instead, he'd flown into a rage, seizing the picture and smashing it to the ground, shattering the glass and the slim wooden frame, grinding it beneath the boot of his heel into the adamant stone of her grave. And he'd screamed as he did it, hating her, hating Ryan, hating himself; he'd screamed because he couldn't understand how everything had gone so wrong.

…………………………………………………………………………………

Lance checked his appearance in the dirty, fly-spotted mirror one more time. Just to be sure. Appearances were everything after all and it wasn't every day one banked half a million dollars. Easy money when you could make it. He hadn't balked at Julie's request because … well, because, like Julie, he knew there were ways to get things done without having to do the dirty work yourself. He smiled at his reflection. If only Julie had done a little more research before reaching for the phone and calling him. She might have saved herself a few hundred grand at least. Ah well! Easy come, easy go. Wasn't that the way of things?

If Lance ever considered his moral character, it wasn't to analyse or better himself. If he did it at all, it was because sometimes, just sometimes, he found himself surprised by his actions. He didn't think of himself as a bad man, just an unfortunate one. By the time Julie had showed up with the cash, he'd recovered from his shock at having agreed to get rid of two punks. He didn't question why he'd accepted the job; that was ancient history. All that concerned him now was how he was going to carry out his task.

The truth was, he wasn't a killer. An extortionist, yes; a con-artist, definitely. But a killer? Lance smiled at his reflection. No, he left that sort of thing to others. And now he'd already done the hard work and tracked down Volchok, the price had dropped. Life was cheap; death cut-price. Even if he did contract it out, he'd still be left with one hell of a healthy bank balance. Better still, if he waited long enough, those kids just might self-destruct. He'd seen the desperation in Volchok's eyes; he'd observed the defeated air of Atwood, to know both were on the edge. All it would take was a little shove and they'd topple. While he sat back and enjoyed the show.

Chuckling, he pocketed his wallet and let himself out the door. He'd find himself some action tonight. It was never too early to celebrate.

………………………………………………………………………………..

Summer considered changing her name. Fall seemed a more appropriate epithet now, or even Winter but, to the girl she was about to visit, she had always been Summer; bright, breezy and sunny, her name conjuring memories of pool parties and loud music and endless youth, and the smells of coconut and berries and fresh salty air. Marissa wouldn't recognize the gaunt, sad-eyed creature gripping the bunch of flowers, such an inadequate gift for the dead.

She hadn't wanted to come, hadn't in fact been here since the funeral, but she couldn't leave without saying goodbye. It was one of those awkward Catch-22 moments; damned if you do and damned if you don't. But the joke was lame and she didn't laugh. She hadn't laughed for a long time.

Hesitantly, she followed the path, marveling that she remembered the way. But there are some things you just never forget, she thought, and she knew she would always be able to find her way to Marissa's side. That's what friendship is about after all; knowing how to find each other, knowing what to say when you did. It wasn't about memories, or stolen moments, or regrets. It was about being there, and though Marissa lay out of reach, below a settling earth and a ton of polished, beveled granite, Summer would always be able to find her.

And she wept as she walked, because that's what parting is about too; knowing you are to be separated, knowing how to say farewell. And it couldn't be done with a phone call, or a thought, or even a prayer. It had to be done face to face. So here she was, to say goodbye to her dearest friend, as though a few words might heal still-bleeding wounds.

At the end of the path, before it turned gently and wound its way through flowerbeds and monuments, she stopped. There it was, the neat prism resting under the twisted boughs of a crepe myrtle. The hole was filled, the dirt gone and the grass had long reclaimed its ground, so that the grave stone appeared to rest upon a green carpet. You'd never know people were under there, Summer thought, so perfect was the image. Was this death; chiselled, mown perfection; with not a blade, not a leaf, out of place? Even the tree was just right, its pink fall blossoms opening under the morning sun, its smoothly carved branches beckoning like the arms of wood nymphs. And Summer shivered, knowing Marissa would have hated it, she who should have been laid to rest upon a craggy cliff top, overlooking the ocean or a sea of wild grass, somewhere where her restless spirit could wander at will; somewhere other than here.

_Jeez, Sum, they've got me boxed like a doll in some kind of fairyland. Everything's just so … bloody perfect, so bloody boring. Get me out of here, please? Please? _

Summer stepped forward, but not too close, unsure how to tell her friend she was stuck there and this time there was no escape.

'Sorry, Coop,' she whispered.

_Oh well. At least you're here now._

'Yeah, I'm here. Sorry I haven't visited before.'

_Don't beat yourself up about. It's not like I have anywhere else to be. I'm just … here. I'll always be here._

Summer shivered again.

_So, what's new? C'mon, Sum, no-one tells me anything. They just come here with their misery and their blame and their shame and they heap it on me until I want to scream. So c'mon, tell me something good. Anything._

Summer wiped her face and took a deep breath, stepping closer again. 'I'm leaving for Brown soon.' She looked down shame-faced at the flowers she still clenched between sweaty hands. God! This was so hard. 'That's what I came to tell you. That I'm leaving.'

_Hey, that's great. It's what you want, right? And Seth can join you later and it will all be good, won't it? Kinda like old times …_

'Except …'

_Stop! No sadness, remember?_ She laughed. _Sum, I've always been the exception. You know that._

Summer smiled crookedly. Marissa, as she ever had, was making it easy.

_Brown'll be good. I've always wanted to go to Rhode Island._

'No you haven't,' Summer chided.

_Yeah, you're right, I haven't. But now I will, right? We'll see it together._

'Sure,' Summer said. 'I'll take you with me, Marissa. Wherever I go, you'll be there too.'

_It's a deal! Now are you going to give me the damned flowers or not?_

Summer laughed, a strange sound strangled with tears. Because this is what love is about, after all; knowing you'll never be alone, knowing that farewell is just a word.

She completed her journey and, bending, placed the flowers on the grave.

_Thanks,_ Marissa sighed. But Summer didn't hear her. She was distracted by the shards of glass and splinters of wood that confetti'd the stone. And there, on the side, its glossy face marred and scratched, lay a photo. Reaching over, she picked it up and frowned.

'Oh, Jeez Coop!' she whispered sadly. 'I'm so sorry …' But this time Marissa kept her silence.

………………………………………………………………………………….

Maggie poured herself another cup of coffee and heaped in the sugar; she had a feeling she'd need the energy today. Rubbing her eyes, she surveyed the mess that littered her bed: files, reports, photos, newspaper clippings. It was all there. Everything she needed to get inside Ryan's head lay on her bed, yet no matter how hard she searched, she kept coming up blank. Too used to identifying with perps, she had no idea how to enter the mind of a victim, or what to do once she had. She was tempted to call Phil Haughton herself, but something was preventing her, something she'd been afraid of since first seeing Ryan. She was breaking the golden rule; she was empathizing.

She grabbed a tee-shirt and, pulling it on, opened the drapes. A bright light battled to get through the clogged fly-screen and the filmed window, but it was enough to tell her she'd overslept. Weary after her efforts last night, trying to track Ryan as he flitted from bar to seedy bar, she'd fallen asleep on the pile of papers and even the alarm hadn't woken her. Oh, to hell with it! She yawned and stretched. She was supposed to be on holidays, wasn't she?

She'd lost track of Ryan about ten, somewhere between The Cave, a grotto she hoped never to see the inside of again, and some nameless hole-in-the-wall bar. And though she'd searched and back-tracked, she hadn't found him again. He was better than she'd credited, or maybe it was just a case of re-discovering his roots. He'd been able to slip into that scene so easily it was hard to assimilate him with the damaged preppy kid he'd first appeared to be.

He'd been searching for something, or someone; into one bar, a quick scour, out again and onto the next. She'd not seen him stop long enough for a drink, or to meet up with anyone. And the only person she could think of that may frequent such places, a person Ryan might have any interest in finding, was Kevin Volchok. Except Volchok wasn't around. A few weeks ago he'd been sighted south, heading for Mexico and, despite an alert being posted, he'd not been seen since. And, in her experience, once someone was on the run, they rarely did a U-turn and came back again. But Ryan had no way of knowing this. So, maybe he had been searching for his enemy. Her eyes narrowed as she considered the possibilities. Or maybe he knew something Maggie didn't. And if it wasn't Volchok he'd been looking for, then who was it?

She glared at her bed again. The answer was there. She just had to find it.

………………………………………………………………………………….

Ryan was still in bed when the small figure cannon-balled into the pool house. He opened one eye and closed it again.

'Wake up, Chino!' Summer demanded. He groaned and motioned her away.

'I mean it, you bastard. Wake up!' Summer reached down and ripped away the covers.

'Hey!' he growled. 'What the hell's wrong with you?'

'This!' she cried, holding up a scrap of paper. Her hand trembled and she was panting with rage. Come to think of it, he noticed blearily, she looked goddamn awful. Her make-up was smeared and she'd obviously been crying. _Take a number._ He grabbed his sheets and, sinking back onto the mattress, pulled them over his head. Maybe if he ignored her, she'd leave.

'Oh Christ!' he yelled, when she kicked him in the ribs. He sat up and glared at her. 'What do you want?'

Again with the piece of paper, waving it in front of his face, so close it was making him nauseous. 'Explain this!' she snapped.

'Well, if you hold it still long enough for me to see what it is, maybe I'll be able to help you,' he retorted.

She threw it at him and it fluttered down to rest in his lap. He picked it up and smoothed its crumpled surface, his thumb gently caressing the face of the girl he once thought he'd loved. Except this face was distorted and broken, smeared under dirt and crisscrossed with scratches. He recognized this photo. He had one just like it in his nightstand drawer. Keeping his expression shuttered and his voice neutral, he glanced up at the angry girl. 'Thanks, but I already have one of these.'

'Yeah, dumbass, I know. This is it.'

He shook his head. All this speaking in riddles was really starting to piss him off. 'No. The one I have is in there.' He motioned to the nightstand and tossed the picture back to her. 'This must be Marissa's.'

Summer glared at him and crossed her arms. 'It's not Marissa's.' She knew it wasn't because she'd watched Julie systematically carve Ryan out of every photo Marissa had kept. Summer had cried herself to sleep that night, and every night since.

'And you woke me up to tell me this because ….?' he asked, despite himself. He was awake now. He might as well find out why.

'Because I found it on her grave. Where _you_ left it. Smashed … no … mashed, ground in, glass everywhere, broken frame.' Her voice rose with hysteria. 'It was horrible. Cruel and horrible.'

Understanding dawned. 'You think I did that?' he asked, barely able to conceal his contempt.

'Who else, Atwood? It was the same frame, the one I helped Marissa choose when she gave you this photo. I remember it.' She paused, then jeered, 'What happened? Did you fly into one of your rages?'

Growling, he reached over and yanked open the drawer, his fingers burrowing to the bottom, under magazines and comics. He'd buried that photo, and all its memories, long before Marissa. Unable to summon the strength to unearth it once she'd died, he'd nevertheless kept it, obscured from view, but close by.

Ryan frowned and began emptying the drawer. 'It's not here,' he muttered.

But Summer wasn't buying any of it. 'Nice try, Atwood. Oh God! To think I actually felt sorry for you!'

He leaped off the bed and towered over her. 'If I wanted to get rid of her photo, I would have just thrown it in the trash.' He combed his fingers through his hair and sighed. 'Marissa was always the dramatic one, Summer, not me.'

She hit him then, an ineffectual punch that glanced off his shoulder. He grabbed her arm and held it still. Bending, he caught her gaze and repeated slowly, 'I didn't do it, Summer. I would never do it.' He shook her arm gently. 'You know that.'

'Then who did?' Summer sobbed, bowing her head. He wanted to take her in his arms then and soothe her, but he, who could find no comfort for himself, was unable to offer it to others.

'I don't know,' he replied softly. But he lied, of course. He knew exactly who might do such a thing. Just as he knew who had taken the photo from his room. Maybe he even knew why. But knowing and understanding aren't the same thing, and there are always those motives, conceived in loneliness and despair and born of spite, that remain incomprehensible to others. All Ryan really understood, all he needed to know, was that the battle lines had been drawn, indelibly.

**tbc**


End file.
